"Lady Catherine Recounts" (A Monologue), written by Big Sister/Makenzie

First of all, I'd like to announce that I've decided to no longer use my pseudonym.  I like my real name.  So from now on, you will know me as "Makenzie."  *bows*

Now, about the story: this is the written version of a monologe I had to write for school.  It's based on the character of Lady Catherine de Bourgh from Pride and Prejudice, and it 'fills a gap'
 in the story, where Lady C. informs Mr. Darcy of her meeting with Elizabeth: "she [Elizabeth] soon learned that they were indebted for their present good understanding to the efforts of his [Mr. Darcy's] aunt [Lady Catherine], who did call on him in her return through London, and there relate... the substance of her conversation with Elizabeth, dwelling emphatically on every expression of the latter," (Pride and Prejudice, p. 413).  Enjoy!
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[Lady Catherine is seated on a chair].  You will be surprised, Darcy, to discover where I have just come from.  I have been obliged to call upon a certain family, in order to gain knowledge about present reports concerning a member of it and yourself.  The family in question is none other than the Bennet family.  I see you are indeed surprised -such a visit was far beneath my situation. It had to be made, however.  Are you aware of the presumptuous talk that has been circulating about yourself?  It is widely believed, nephew, that you are shortly to be engaged to none other than Miss Elizabeth Bennet!  Your silence, I am sure, is a result of your offense at such presuming claims as these.

 As for my conversation with Miss Elizabeth Bennet- well!  I have never heard such impertinence, and such a lack of regard towards a woman of my standing.  She was determined against acknowledging the truth of my claims - insolent, headstrong girl that she is!  I reminded her of her complete lack of family, connections and fortune.  You yourself cannot be unaware that she has uncles and aunts in [spoken with great distaste] trade. And her father may be a gentleman, but her mother most certainly is not a gentlewoman.  And as her father’s money is entailed away from the female line, her fortune amounts to practically nothing.  But this is not all.  You may have heard something, Darcy, of the patched-up business of her younger sister’s elopement.  It is indeed a disgrace! And what is more, the man she married is the son of your father’s steward.  Heaven and earth! -Can you imagine the mortification of being attached to such relations?

I told Miss Bennet, also, that you are expected to marry my daughter; and that you have been destined for each other from birth.  This alliance is a matter of honour; one that is equal in great fortune and noble birth.  I have expected this happy event for many years; and you know that it was also the desire of your poor, departed mother.  But despite all I said to Miss Bennet, her opinions remained unalterable; though, after much urging on my part, she did finally tell me that she was not presently engaged to you.  However, she firmly refused to promise never to enter into such an agreement.   She seemed to think I had no concern in the matter whatever -I, who am almost your only living relative! And she had the impudence to believe that even if she did not marry you, your marriage with my daughter would not necessarily be secure!  Can you believe it?

Thankfully, I have no doubts that you will soon settle my anxieties in this regard.  Indeed, I know that you will give me your sincere promise that you never have, and never will have any desire of marrying Miss Bennet. [Pause]. Darcy?  Darcy!  Answer me!  Will you not give me your word?  You surely cannot be partial to Miss Bennet! [Pause.  Narrows eyes in suspicious anger] I know you are one who is not easily moved, nephew; so I will allow for your refusal to be a result of the independence of your nature.  However, be warned.  You know that such a marriage cannot be approved of by me, and to enter into it would be to secure my everlasting indignation.  [Stands.] Remember who you are!  You are a man of superior and noble consequence; from a family that has long been known and esteemed. You are Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberly, and the proud shades of Pemberly are not to be polluted.  [Makes a sweeping exit].

Along the Old Road, written by Big Sister

Hello there readers! I wrote this story for school using the poem "To David Campbell" as a stimulus.  I put the poem here as I couldn't seem to find a link online.  I suggest reading the story first. ;)

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DEAD FOX BY EDGAR DEGAS

The sharp cold morning air nipped at Philip’s lungs and pinched his fingers. He walked through the frosty paddocks and down to the dry sandy riverbed, rejoicing in the quiet stillness.   

Wherever he was, Philip always walked alone in the mornings; to think, to enjoy the solitude and quiet.  Here on the rural property of his friend David, the mornings were wondrous in their newly born splendour.  Poetry wrote itself in his mind as life unfolded softly in the singing birds and arising light.

In the riverbed he found a stone, smoothed by water and shaped like a heart.  Philip smiled and put it in his pocket before continuing.

His feet pulled through the sand.  He was lost in deep contemplation, his narrow shoulders hunched, his dark head hanging down on his chest, and his dark-grey eyes watching his feet.   He almost missed it, but a corner of his sight caught the patch of red, and he turned abruptly to see the body of a fox stretched out cold on the ground.  He stood over the little form. Its coat was damp with dew.  “Poor chap!  Poison, perhaps?” he said out loud.  He leant and touched the silky red fur. 

Then he walked on, though a little of the glory seemed to have faded from the morning.

Later, Philip rambled with David along one of the property’s dusty trails.  David’s dog, Joe, ran about like a child on a sugar high.  There was an old ghost gum leaning almost over, still healthy and alive. The dog ran up it, barking happily; then his paws slipped and he fell to the ground.

  David laughed at him.  “Half-witted animal!”

Philip grinned at him.  “I bet you couldn’t climb a tree.”

“Oh really, you old cow?  You bet eh?  I’ll show you!” 

“Not the leaning one!  That doesn’t count.  A baby could climb it.  This one.” Philip touched a tall, smooth gum.

“Fine!”  David’s strong arms pulled, his feet scrabbled awkwardly for footholds.  Philip stood with his arms crossed, laughing, as David climbed high then slid uncomfortably down again.   His white trousers were filthy and ripped, his arm was bleeding from a cut and his fair hair was dark with sweat, but he grinned triumphantly. 

“Ha! Lost your bet!”

“Oh, did I?  Or perhaps I knew you could climb it all along and just wanted to laugh at you.  I’ll write a poem about it.  ‘My friend David climbed a tree; just like a half-baked drongo looked he--”

“Hey!  Put a sock in it!” cried David.  “You and your poetry…!”

Further along, they came to an old road –once busy, now just a roaming-place for cattle and wildlife.  It stretched its long length between scrabbly bush.  Philip’s mind wandered down it absently; till he looked around and saw David beckoning him.  Philip followed, curiosity wrinkling a small frown on his forehead.

David led him into a grove of trees.  In the center of it were several mounds, long grassed over with age. “Graves,” David said quietly, in reply to Philip’s questioning look.  “Early settlers here.  One of them was my great-great grandfather.”  He took his hat off and held it before him. Philip saw his huge shoulders and his face with its broken nose soften in respect; his usually playfully twinkling blue eyes grow thoughtful.

 The wind rustled gently in the tall gum trees.  Philip could feel, still lingering faintly in the air, memories of bygone sorrows; and the trees remembered the sounds of broken hearts weeping.  He stood next to his friend in thought for many minutes.

In the afternoon, they saddled up two frisking horses for a ride.  They took the old road.  Philip breathed deeply, the gentle winter sunlight soaking warmly into his skin.  His horse swished its tail and threw its head about, restless as the ever-moving butterflies that fluttered past.  Philip began to rise to a trot, then a canter.  Then, “beat you to the end of the road!” he called to David; and leaned forward into a gallop.

They thundered along the trail, clouds of bulldust rising behind them.  Their horses breathed in air through wide nostrils, eager, excited.  Philip’s heart took wing as the wind rushed past his face, and he shouted for sheer joy.

Something, a kangaroo perhaps, flew crashing out of the scrub and across the road.  David’s horse, terrified, shied away with the speed of a whip.  David was flung off and slammed hard into the ground.   Philip pulled his frightened horse to a halt with desperate hands.  He was by his friend’s side in a moment.

“David!  Are you all right?” he gasped.

David was still.  Philip knelt down.  His throat all of a sudden gasped dry and he felt nauseous with a terrible fear for which there could be no words.

Everything that passed after that was misty, dreamlike.  Philip refused to be parted from David for a moment.  He was there when they loaded the still form into the ambulance, and when they carried him into the hospital.

By David’s bed, in a moment alone, Philip whispered words filled with such pleading.  “Please… come back… wake up… open your eyes.”  There was no reply. 

Philip looked through dull, wet eyes at the mound of fresh earth, veiled with a mantle of flowers.   Flowers and tears, last gifts from the living to the dead.  Philip felt as though his heart was gasping for air under its crushing load of loss.  David… just before sparkling with life, then extinguished like a snuffed candle.

Philip’s mind, shrouded in grey misery, searched desperately for answers. How could a being, so filled with life, so real, so normal, so human, die, and turn back to dust?  This is not how it should be. 

Beyond his anguish, a whisper answered him.  When he had seen the coffin, heard the dull thud as it dropped down into the earth; he had felt through his sobs that somehow, it was not really David in that cold white box.  For he had gone to the land where everything is shining light under the Greatest light of all.  

Philip leant down and placed the heart-shaped stone, warm from his hands, on the grave; then resumed standing in silent thought beside the still mound of earth.

Look into the eyes.

 from Google images

Oi guys,
Hey.  I notice you haven't been reading any posts lately.  Or at least, not leaving any comments.  Not even a reaction*, which only takes one click of that mouse you've got your right hand on at this moment.

Now, those things we've posted-- they're actually pretty splendid.  From interesting and informative to hilarious to whats-gonna-happen-next etc. etc...  

Y u no read?

Just look into Puss in Boots' eyes.  Imagine that they are our eyes.  Imagine us saying "don't... don't you like our stories anymore?  What did we do?"

The only way to appease those eyes is to scroll down, read, then leave a comment.  Even just a reaction.

If you don't, those eyes will haunt you in your sleep.

Have a nice day! (hopefully).
From, Big Sister

* see bottom of posts

"The Sound in the Abbey", told by Big Sister

Simon the traveller shivered and pulled his cloak closer about his shoulders.  The sky was an ominous grey color, and the wind that whipped the grass was bitingly cold. Thunder rumbled.  He urged his tired horse on faster, hoping to find shelter before the storm broke.  As his horse ascended a hillock, Simon caught sight of the large, imposing form of an abbey on the horizon.  But before he was halfway there, the storm broke.  Lightning flashed, and rain bucketed down so heavily that it was difficult to see.  By the time he reached the large wooden gates of the abbey, Simon was soaked to the skin and shivering with cold.  He dismounted quickly and pulled the bell-rope.

A few minutes later, Simon was standing, dripping wet, inside the abbey kitchen.
The monk in charge of the kitchen, who had friendly brown eyes and a rather round tummy, smiled.  “My, you must be cold!  Stand in front of the fire while I get you some dry garments,” he said. “I’m brother Thomas, by the way.”
 Simon was most happy to comply with the monk’s wishes, and it wasn’t long before he was clean, dry and had a hearty stew warming his insides.  He was then shown to a small, simply furnished room.  “I trust you will sleep well” said Thomas.  “Good night, and may God give you peaceful dreams.” Simon, completely exhausted, flopped onto the bed and was soon fast asleep.

.:. .:. .:. 

He  awoke with a start and sat bolt upright, his flesh crawling. He was sure he had heard something. He listened intently for a few moments, but all was silent.  “Probably an early morning mass or summat,” he muttered sleepily, and lay down again.  Then he heard the sound that had awakened him.  It was the most beautiful, yet the most awful thing he had ever heard. Simon was filled with ecstasy and dread at the same time.  He wanted desperately to run away, to hide himself from it, but the sound held him a hypnotized captive, and he could not move. So the he lay and listened, sweating despite the cold, his heart pounding in his ears.  At that moment, he knew that at all costs he must find out whatever it was that made that sound.
Eventually the sound died away.  Shaky and weak, Simon quickly fell asleep again. His dreams were filled with the sound.

The first thing in Simon’s mind when he awoke next morning was the sound he had heard in the night.  Could it have been a dream?  No.  He knew it was more than that.  Simon leapt out of bed and rushed down to the kitchen.  Brother Thomas was there, stirring a huge kettle of porridge that hung over the fire.
“You are up early, my friend!” said Thomas, handing the traveller a bowl of steaming porridge. “I trust you slept well?”
“No, no indeed!” cried Simon.  “I was was awakened in the night by the most fearsome, wonderful sound that I have ever heard.”
Brother Thomas inhaled sharply. “You heard the sound? I am sorry.  Very sorry.  It does not usually wake people up.  If I could have stopped it, I would have… but it will have its way!”
“It?  Please, show me what it is that makes this sound, so that I can be at peace!”
Thomas shook his head.  “I cannot tell you.  Do yourself a favor and forget about the sound.”
“Nay, that is impossible.  If I do not know, I am sure that I will die!”
Thomas sighed.  “I would certainly tell you if I could, friend, but I am afraid that only those enrolled in the fraternal bonds of monastic brotherhood are allowed to know that.”
“Eh? The fraternal what?”
“Bonds of monastic brotherhood.”
“D’ye mean I have to be a monk?
“I’m afraid so.”
“But it will take years to become a monk,” groaned the unfortunate man, “I could not bear the wait-- I must know at once!”
“I am sorry,”  said brother Thomas stubbornly. “I dare not change the rule.”
“Very well,” said Simon, his voice grim with determination, “if it must be so. I will begin on my journey to join the fraternal bonds of ...er, monasti-whatever it is this very day.  And he sat down and began to eat his porridge.

.:. Several years later .:.

 Simon rode eagerly along the road to the abbey.  He was dressed in a habit, and his head was shaved in a cenobitic fashion; for during the last few years he had graduated as a “member of the fraternal bonds of monastic brotherhood”- in other words, he was a monk.  As Simon caught sight of the abbey, his pulse quickened and his eyes grew bright with feverish anticipation. For the sound he had heard had never ceased to haunt him, and today would finally find out what it was.

As soon as his horse was stabled within the abbey walls, Simon headed straight for the kitchen. Standing at the large kitchen table, elbow-deep in bread dough, was brother Thomas; the round, warm-eyed monk who had welcomed in our traveller when he was cold and wet and hungry.
Thomas looked up and started in recognition. “You!” he exclaimed. “So you really did join the fraternal bonds of monas-”
“Yes,”  said Simon, smiling.
“Sit down and have something to eat,” said Thomas , dusting the flour off his hands.
Simon sat down.  “It is good to see you again, brother Thomas.”  He paused. “I suppose you know why I am here?”
“I can guess,” said Thomas.
“You will show me then?”
“Yes.  You are a monk, and I cannot deny your request, even though I wish I could. But you must wait until tonight.”

.:. .:. .:.

That night, when the moon was high in the velvety black welkin, brother Thomas woke Simon.   “Come,” whispered Thomas, “follow me, and do not make a sound.”  
Simon noticed with interest that Thomas was carrying a crowbar. However, he said nothing, and followed him silently until they came into a cool, dank cellar. The cellar was very seldom used, being small, damp, and inaccessible, and was empty apart from some barrels in the corner and a few ancient bottles of wine on the rotting shelves.  Thomas closed and locked the cellar door behind them; then leaning his crowbar against the wall, moved aside some barrels, knelt down and began running his hands over the stone floor.  Simon looked on in surprise.
“What are you looking for?” he asked.
“Shush!”
“Sorry.”
“We have to lever out one of the stones.  I’m trying to find it,” whispered Thomas. “Ah! Here it is.  Come and help me lever it out.”
As quietly as possible, they used the crowbar to heave out the large flagstone, revealing a solid trapdoor built of steel and wood.  Beneath the trapdoor was a black hole.
Thomas wriggled through the hole backward and hung there on his elbows.  “The floor isn’t too far down, but you’ll have to drop,” he said.  “Give me a moment to get out of the way before you follow.”
Thomas dropped down with a soft thud.
Simon shuddered, for he hated the dark and all its horrid creatures, then dropped down after Thomas.
 Thomas lit a torch and held it up, illuminating their surroundings. They were standing in the entryway of a staircase that had been carved out of the solid rock.  Cobwebs brushed against them as they began to descend.
The staircase went steeply downwards deep into the earth. Simon didn’t count the steps, but it seemed to him there must have been thousands. But after a considerable amount of time, he noticed the staircase growing slowly less steep, until by degrees it became a horizontal tunnel.
The tunnel was freezing cold, water dribbled in little rivers down the walls, and there was a strange smell about. Simon  sniffed nervously, and he was just going to ask Thomas if he was sure about poisonous gases when he felt something crunch under his foot.  He looked down to see a skeleton, and gasped with horror.  “What is that?” he cried.  “How did he die?  Brother, are you sure the air is good down here?”
“Ah, I forgot to tell you about the skeletons,” said brother Thomas.
“Skeletons?  Are there more?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“H-how did they get here?”
“Each has its own story, and I could not tell them all.  However, I do know what happened to this  particular fellow: he was a thief.  Many years ago, this place was protected by armed guards.  They killed the thief and left him there as a warning to others.”
Simon’s hair -or what was left of it-  stood on end, and he looked very strange.  Then to make things worse, an enormous, shaggy spider plopped onto his head and ran across his face.  He gave a strangled yell and brushed it off.  And when he saw a huge rat skulking in the shadows, Simon began wish he had never come, and that perhaps the sound wasn’t so wonderful after all and that he should go back to his nice warm bed.
Then he heard it.
 The sound echoed around the passage, much louder than before, far more wonderful and indescribably terrible.  Simon forgot his fears; Thomas’ face shone.  Together they hurried down the passage, the sound growing ever louder.  As they grew closer to the sound, the walls of the tunnel ceased to be wet and dirty.  They were adorned with paintings and magnificent tapestries.  Many other things were in the passageway; things like weird and beautiful statues and ancient artifacts. At intervals the smooth walls of the passage were interrupted by large wooden doors studded with jewels.  Numerous skeletons lay around. But Simon didn’t notice, nor did he notice the bats, snakes and other horrid creatures that slithered, crawled and fluttered about him. All he cared about was the sound.
Suddenly the passage ended.  The pair were in a large, perfectly circular room.  The high arched ceiling was supported by silver beams.  In the middle of the ceiling hung a huge lantern that filled the room with light. The walls of the room were painted with montages and strange symbols, and were encrusted with precious jewels. It was wondrous sight, yet Simon gave it only a glance. His eyes were fixed on a huge door directly ahead of them. The door was exquisitely carved from oak, and in the center of it was a strange symbol made of diamonds.
The sound was coming from behind it.
Small drops of sweat rolled Simon’s forehead.  He wanted more than anything else to see what was behind the door, but terror held him.  He shook with the unbearable emotion of terror and joy combined.
“Come,” said Thomas in a hushed voice.  He took the Simon’s arm and led him to the door.  The sound grew louder.  Thomas drew from his habit a tiny key, carved from a single emerald, inserted it into the lock and twisted it. Then he drew a deep breath, shuddered, and threw open the door.  
Simon gasped, staggered back, and his eyes were filled with wonderment.  For there before him he saw--

Here, my friend, I’m afraid I must leave you, because as I clearly specified earlier in this tale, you must be a part of the “fraternal bonds of monastic brotherhood” to know the source of the Sound. In other words,
You have to be a monk to find out. 

.:. THE END .:.

ABOUT THE STORY:  I say "told" because I didn't come up with the plot-- this story is actually based on a joke that was related to me.  I just turned it into a story.  No idea who wrote it (the joke, that is) originally, but it can be found online. :) 

P.S HAPPY APRIL FOOLS!  (even if it is, ehem, slightly late).  Were you annoyed??  Yes?  MWAHAHAHA! HAHA! HA! 

Guess what else? I actually was planning to write this for last year's April Fools.  But it was kinda late and... well, here we are.  "Such is life."  (If you don't know who said that, you're probably not Australian.  It's what Ned Kelly, an outlaw, said just before he died.  Okay, I'll admit I had to look it up to double check).

'Feathers,' by Big Sister

Hello all! Here's a story I wrote for an English assignment this year. :)

via 

The best thing about being forced to live in an Enclosed Village with thirty-two witless chickens and a narcissistic rooster is that there’s always available food.  The worst is that when attacked by an enemy… there’s nowhere to run.

Living with chickens is no salad garden.  They’re greedy creatures.  My wife and I are distinguished Indian Runner ducks and would prefer more intelligent company, but, well, we have no choice.

My wife’s name, unfortunately, is Cinderella.  A bunch of grubby human children chose our names.  They called me Kevin and I won’t reveal my thoughts on this; it makes me too angry.  My only comfort is the rooster’s name: Scruff-Yuck, decided by the children’s opinion of him.  That’s what stops him teasing me about my name, and perhaps from becoming the most arrogant creature on earth.  

 One Saturday, I was enjoying my bath, and Rodney flew down to join me.  He’s a good mate of mine --smart as a brown snake and as fierce as a broody hen--  and likes a little wash himself once in a while.  As a matter of fact he and his expansive family of Apostlebirds feel themselves free to take liberties with anything of ours, especially food. Rodney (proudly named by his mother) chatted with me for a while comparing worms with grasshoppers and complaining about the awful racket the Lorikeets make every night before going to sleep.  Then he said, “Orange’s gang has been causing trouble.”

Orange leads the Crows, arch-enemies of farmers and livestock since Adam was cast out of Eden.  They steal chicks and eggs and have been known to peck the eyes out of weak sheep.  They are the only fellow birds who are not welcome in our Enclosed Village.  All birds are united with us in that -even Scruff-Yuck.  There’s nothing we can do:  Starting a fight could have dire consequences. 

“What’ve they been up to now?” I asked.  

“Stole two chicks over the hill.  Mother hen was in hysterics for three days.”

I stopped grooming myself and shook my head. “Shame on them!”  I paused.  Then, “Cindy’s been trying to go broody-  we want ducklings.  But every time she lays an egg, those feathered devils steal it.  She’s pretty upset.”

Rodney looked sympathetic.  “Have you tried hiding them?”

“Naturally!  Though we’re going to try a little harder this time.  Under the Coop.  It’s cramped and dirty, but she’s willing to give it a go… it’s only a few weeks, thank goodness.  I said I’d give her a hand with the Sitting.”

Rodney grinned at me.  

“You’ll make a great dad, mate!  I can just see you helping teach a floppy duckling how to swim-  flappin’ ya wings in rage and goin’ red in the beak-- well, I gotta go now.  Had me fill of your lovely grain and stuff.  Bye, old Roast!”  

Away he flew.  

Cindy and I had been caring for the eggs for almost a week before Orange discovered them.  He and his mates Eyeball and Bin-Juice noticed me just as I squeezed under the house, and came to investigate.  

“What’ve ya got there, mate?” Orange twanged, his voice shockingly high-pitched for such an impressive looking guy.  

Bin-Juice hopped over on one leg.  “Arrgh harrgh! Eggs!” he said. “How many of ‘em is there?” 

My feet felt clammy.

 “Look, here’s a deal,” said Orange.  “We’ll only take three, and you can hatch the rest.  Fair enough, eh?”  

Cindy was sitting tight and brave on those eggs, but her beak was pale and she was shaking.  I shoved my way out from under the coop.  “Only three?  Sure!  Take three of our babies now, then you can have the rest when they’re bigger!”  

“That’s the idea, mate.”

Cinderella just looked at me, pleading for her babies.  

I could feel the blood draining from my bill, but I shook my tail and said: 

“You’re not taking our children.  Therefore, no eggs.  Got it? Go help yourselves to the human’s giant dump-bucket pile.”  

Orange, Bin-Juice and Eyeball stared at me with their beady, shrewd, wicked little eyes.  Eyeball stuck out his neck and pushed his face into mine. “Well then, mate.  I guess we’ll just have to take ‘em for ourselves! 

They began to crowd close, trying to shove past me.  Enraged to the highest degree, I puffed myself up to my full height and pecked Eyeball on the eye, whacked Bin-Juice with my wing, and with a loud cry flung myself at Orange.  I fought hard and inflicted some damage I think, but in moments I was pinned to the ground.  Orange cawed with rage.  “I’ll kill you!” he shouted, then looked up as a shadow fell over us.

“Ehem!”

It was Scruff-Yuck.

“Get off my territory!” he said pompously, and pecked viciously at Orange’s head.  “Or I might be forced to use these.”  He stretched out his leg to show off his long, sharp spurs.  “Quick!  Remove your fat, sausage-like bodies from my sight immediately!”  And he crowed loudly to show that he was Scruff-Yuck the great, and no-one ever disobeyed Scruff-Yuck the great.  

With a flurry of gleaming black feathers they left.

Scruff-Yuck looked at me.  

“Thanks,” I muttered.

He shrugged.  “Gotta establish my territory” he said, turned his large, fluffy bottom around and strutted off.

Rodney appeared out of nowhere.  

“That was lucky mate,” he said seriously.  “Those crows are savage.” 

 Then he saw the funny side and grinned.  “Lucky good ole Scruff-Yuck was there to help you.”

“Scruff-Yuck,” I said coldly, “thinks a lot about his greatness; yet for all that he still has a large, fluffy, bottom--”

A shadow fell across us.

It was Scruff-Yuck.

He had come to get some food out of the Communal Food pan.  He pecked at it absently, but the shocking implications of what I had said were too much.  He soon walked away and crouched sadly with his bottom pressed into a post.

My conscience pricked me like a painful bindi.  Scruff-Yuck looked utterly dejected.  

I walked over to him.

“Er… Scruff-Yuck?  I just wanted to say that--”

We both heard it at the same time.  The beating of wings.  We looked up to see the sky dark with crows -- at least fifty of them.  Scruff-Yuck jumped up and gave the alarm.  The hens scrambled to the safety of the coop, but several crows landed on the ramp and headed them off.  Then they attacked.

 Scruff-Yuck and I fought side by side, and I saw those spurs actually in use.   I wouldn’t mind a pair of those things.  My soft feet and blunt bill aren’t much use in a fight.  

I saw Rodney battling near me: he and most of his family had valiantly joined us.  But it was hopeless. We would soon be overcome. 

Then I saw the humans, alarmed by the ear-splitting racket, come running.  They stopped speechless for a moment when they saw their chicken coop swarming with wildly fighting birds.  One of them grabbed their large dog by the collar and shoved him inside the pen.  

I heard a deep growl shiver out of the dog’s throat, and saw his gums snarl back over his white teeth.   With an explosive bark he leapt at the crows and chased them wildly.  Cawing loudly, they fled.

That afternoon, we watched as the humans put strong wire netting over the top of our whole Enclosed Village.  The crows were shut out.  But Rodney soon found a place to squeeze in.  

Now that all was well again, Scruff-Yuck began to fall back into depression.  I headed over to him to finish my interrupted conversation.  

“Scruff-Yuck?”

He grunted and began grooming his wing.

“I’m sorry I said-- you know.”

Scruff-Yuck mumbled something under his beak.  

 “Pardon?” I pressed.

He burst out:  “It’s still fluffy!”

“Who cares?  I can’t even crow! Plus I have a little stumpy tail, my beak’s blunt, and Cindy says my feet get flatter every day.  You’re much better off than me!”

Scruff-Yuck didn’t answer, but

 a little smile bent the corners of his beak upwards. 

The Assassination of Julius Caesar, by Alice

The assassination of Julius Caesar, an event that would change the face of the Roman Empire forever.  Conspirators claimed that this action was taken for the good of Rome, while historians are left to argue whether this was the case or not. 

Some believe that these ‘patriotic’ Romans were in fact rich nobility afraid of what the future, if in Caesar’s hands, would hold for them; while others believe that their sole purpose in assassinating Rome’s idol was for no other reason than the benefit of the people. 

***

Gaius Julius Caesar was born in 100BC, in a month that was later named after him: July. Caesar belonged to the Julii family, one of Rome’s original aristocratic families. At the age of sixteen, during a civil war which divided those who favoured aristocratic rule against those who preferred a more democratic approach, Caesar came into conflict with Sulla and thus fled to Central Italy. There he joined the army where he grew a reputation as a brave, beloved leader and quickly climbed to power. 

After the death of Sulla in 78BC, Caesar returned to Italy and became a reputed politician. 

Soon he became exceedingly powerful as a member of the First Triumvirate, a group formed by Caesar and his allies, Pompey and Crassus.  At this time the members of the Senate and powerful aristocratic families were divided into two conflicting parties: the Optimates who sought to hold power within - or very close to - the oligarchy, and the Reformers (Populares) who endeavored to improve - or at least pretended to - the conditions of the common people. Caesar was a member of the Reformers and attempted to improve the circumstances of the destitute by reallocating land. This also is a matter of controversy, as some believe Caesar was genuinely acting in the interest of the less fortunate, while others believe he did it out of selfish ambition in order to create a power base and win the hearts of the Roman citizens. Whatever his motive, Caesar succeeded in winning the hearts of the people. His reputation continued to grow as he distributed farming land to thousands of soldiers and families with three children or more;  established public work projects for the unemployed and on occasion he even dispersed cash straight from the treasury. 

In short, he quickly attained great power and admiration from a significant portion of Roman citizens. He even received the title Dictator for Life from the Senate.

So what went wrong? 

To start with, “There was some suggestion that these flowery honorifics were, in reality, sarcastic bestowals by a group of senators who, increasingly, resented Caesar’s power and popularity, and what must have seemed to them an almost socialistic redistribution of wealth... while they railed against Caesar’s supposed tyranny, they, as members of the Roman senate, had a great deal to lose by Caesar’s land distributions and his reforms.”*

The plot to stop Caesar began with Gaius Cassius Longinus and quickly grew to a conspiracy with sixty mainly aristocratic members who called themselves “the Liberators”.

As Caesar was to leave the country on 18th March with his expanding army, it was decided thus that action would be taken when he addressed the Senate on 15th March - the Ides of March. For months leading up to March 44BC, the conspirators met secretly in each others’ houses to scheme the impending assassination. 

Caesar was warned of danger several times, yet he was a conceited man and failed to heed his warnings. 

Spurinna, a soothsayer,  forewarned him of a tragedy that would take place no later than the Ides of March.

A man Caesar dismissed as a favour-seeker on the street thrust a note into his hands, begging him to read it. The note revealed the enemy’s plan, yet Caesar ignored it.

The very night before his assassination he asked his allies what form of death they would want, and answered his own question with a quick, unexpected end. That night as he lay in bed, the windows of his house were suddenly blown open as if by a strong wind, yet the evening was still. Caesar dreamed he was flying above the clouds, lighter than air, and awoke just as he was reaching out for the hand of Jupiter. 

His wife had a dream of his lifeless body lying in her arms, bloodied and bruised. She convinced him to stay home and not meet with the Roman Senate that day. Yet when his close friend and one of his murderers, Decimus Brutus, arrived and pressured him to not let the Senate down and thus jeopardize his reputation, he complied. He left home for the very last time.

The Senate stood in respect upon Caesar’s arrival. He took his seat and suddenly the conspirators closed in around him, asking him questions, distracting him,  confusing him, irritating him. When suddenly a conspirator tore Caesar’s purple robe from his shoulders - his symbol of dictatorship - and the attack began. One man attempted to stab him in the shoulder, yet was so nervous it was barely a graze; Caesar fought and tried to break free but was closed in on all sides; one conspirator stabbed him in the face, another in the side, another in the back...  Marcus Brutus was one of the last to plunge a knife into his body, and Caesar’s last words were, “And you too, my child!”, directed at Brutus. 

With that, he collapsed at the foot of a statue of Pompey and breathed his last. There were twenty-three stab wounds in his body, and Julius Caesar was no more. 

“When they were done, the conspirators turned to the rest of the Senate, displaying their bloody knives and claiming that they had slain a dictator as a legitimate act of tyrannicide (tyrannicide being legal under Roman law). 

But the senators were terrified and fled the Senate House. Anger and fear then swept through the city, paralyzing Rome. By the next day... the common people of the city had turned against the senators, even those who had not helped kill their idol... Thirteen years of civil war followed. In the end, the Roman Republic was no more. Imperial Rome, with Octavian as emperor, had begun, and would last for five hundred years of absolute rule. 

The assassins, whether they were acting out of self-interest, or in a true belief that Rome faced a tyrant, had ironically changed the course of Roman history and halted the Republic in its tracks. Had Caesar not been killed, who knows what would have happened? 

...For six days after Caesar’s violent death, a comet appeared in the skies of Rome. Some people believed it was Caesar’s spirit, flying through the sky, as in his dream. And in coins minted after the assassination, the comet is always shown. That’s a sign of the power of Caesar’s name, then and thereafter, whether he was a tyrant or popularis (Reformer), or a little of both.”

The Death of Caesar, by Vincenzo Camuccini (1773-1844)

*All quotes taken from “History’s Greatest Hits” by Joseph Cummins

A poem by Big Sister

There was a dog
a foggy dog
on a log
in a
B
O
G
!*

He walked on a frog
Which was sitting on the log
And which also fell into the bog


I'm just so clever at rhyming ( :
Love Big Sister